


Cap-Operated Boy

by stpitbull



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:12:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stpitbull/pseuds/stpitbull





	Cap-Operated Boy

A man has needs. That's what he kept telling himself. A man had  _needs_ .   
  
_Breathe in one count. Breathe out one count. Breathe in two counts. Breathe out two counts._  Instinct, at this point, his body's automatic reaction to anxiety after he had honed it to precision. Into the Atomic Wrangler.  _Breathe in five counts._  Steadfastly ignoring every other person in the bar, heading up the stairs.  _Breathe out six counts._ The courier was leaning against the door to her room, smiling that Nightstalker smile of hers.  _Breathe in seven counts._   
  
Gratitude would be easier if she weren't so damned smug about it. She was doing him a solid, and he recognized that -- he was using her room, and she was providing him with an alibi for the rest of the crew. She had even done the hiring so he wouldn't have to suffer through the indignity of it, and the agonizingly long trudge of Fisto's _incredibly loud_  ascent of the stairs. (Her required payment for these tasks was resolute -- twenty-four hours to wear his beret. She seemed to count his concession as a massive victory.)   
  
"Have fun,  _stud_ ," she said with that wicked slimy grin, tossing him the room key and sauntering away.   
  
_Breathe in ten counts. Breathe out ten counts._   
  
Ah, christ, this thing couldn't have been any less appealing. When the courier had sauntered home and loudly proclaimed to have found a sexbot he had been imagining something... different. Fisto had curves but not the kind Boone had in mind.   
  
Maybe that was for the better. The whole point of this was... needs. Manly needs, being taken care of, by a thing that didn't have a heartbeat.   
  
Fisto's dome lit up and a thin strip of yellow light scanned down Boone's face. The robot "spoke", soulless voice buzzing sentences like they were crudely assembled from orphaned words running away from their original uses. " _Greetings, HANDSOME customer. I am programmed for your pleasure. Please select sexual routine._ "   
  
There were routines? There were routines. Was he supposed to know this stuff? He made an awkward noise of feigned consideration before just saying, "The... the standard."   
  
" _Loading STANDARD routine._ "    
  
Boone winced. "Could you just... not talk?"   
  
" _Of course, sir. Please remove your trousers._ "   
  
No sound in the room aside from the awkward rustle of cloth and the dim hum of Boone's company for the night. He was stepping out of the last leg, the hem of it getting caught on his boot, when a rising whirring sound joined in as Fisto raised one of its arms.   
  
"What's that?" Boone asked with the appropriate amount of anxiety of one experiencing something that made that particular noise approaching his limp cock.   
  
" _Please do not be alarmed by the noise. Everything is fine._ "   
  
Boone sucked in a deep breath and watched as the pincers to the extended arm folded back neatly and a sort of chamber opened in the "hand". Boone bent slightly to inspect it with a cautious finger -- it felt like some kind of soft rubber on the inside, all ridges. And it was warm, the rubber soft under his finger. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, he figured, as his jarred mind tried to put all the pieces together. He jerked his finger back, though, as with a loud churning sound the ridges began to shift and push out, past the opening of the hand cavity, forming a thick protrusion out of the arm.   
  
"Hey,  _whoa_ ," Boone grunted as the black smoothly-ridged  _thing_  got closer to him and that damn whirring got louder, "maybe I don't want the standard."   
  
" _Please relax, sir._ "

"No," Boone said, taking a step back, "no, the standard is definitely not for me. Give me... fuck, give me something with less...  _penetration_ ."   
  
" _Loading EXTERNAL STIMULATION routine._ "   
  
There was a pause, with only the sounds of that whirring to fill the room, and then the tip of the protrusion pressed lightly against Boone's belly, catching on where his t-shirt hung and Boone moved the fabric on reflex, the warm rubber colliding with his skin. It was vibrating slightly, running along the contours of his hipbones and catching slightly against his skin. It slipped further south and felt... nice. Not touching his cock but it was definitely getting a... reaction. He closed his eyes and took himself in hand as the vibrations carried on along the seam of his legs, the inside of his thigh. He was half-hard when the tip pushed his fingers away, running along the underside of his cock. Boone let loose a shaky breath as he took in the vibration, the slight rhythmic pulse, the pressure moving from base to tip, and back, dragging with it a thin trail of precome.   
  
Okay. Okay, this was feeling better, but with his eyes closed it was still... too human, in a familiar way. The whole point of this was to avoid any potentially painful memories, any pangs of familiarity that would make him feel like a monster again but he had a suspicion that if he opened his eyes he'd be soft again in seconds. "Could you," he paused to suck in a sharp breath as the tip pressed into the root of his base and gave a slightly harder pulse, "...could you start talking again?"   
  
" _Certainly, sir. Please select dialogue sub-routine: Classy. Romantic. Filthy. Self-loathing. Cowboy._ "   
  
Another particularly firm pulse and Boone was close to losing his footing. "Self-loathing?" he repeated in question.   
  
" _Loading SELF-LOATHING dialogue sub-routine._ " Fisto carried on in the same decontextualized monotone. " _You like taking my rod, don't you, you filthy bitch._ "   
  
Oh god. "N-none of that, let's just... let's call off the dialogue subroutine." Fisto once again went mercifully silent. And Boone just focused on his own breathing, and the strange mechanical sounds, and the way his legs were starting to feel weak.   
  
" _Initial arousal complete. Please assume the position._ "   
  
Boone's eyes shot open. "What?"   
  
" _Please assume the position._ "   
  
"What's the--  _ah_  -- what's the position?"   
  
Fisto explained.   
  
Oh.  
  
  
  
 _Breathe in one count. Breathe out one count._  He was being ridiculous, he could leave any time he wanted. But Fisto had given his oath that this was still part of the no-penetration.  _And if you can't trust robot prostitutes then who can you trust,_  he thought to himself. He shifted a little, flat on his back with his ass at the edge of the bed, knees pulled up to his chest, holding his thighs with his hands. Still in his t-shirt and boots.  
  
He heard the sounds of metal plates shifting (not that that would have been his first guess) and lifted his head to see what was happening. There was an opening on Fisto's external plating, and some kind of...  _tool_  was extending, lined up right about with Boone's ass. But it didn't look like a... shit, Boone couldn't think of a proper analogue for  _what_  it looked like. Some kind of vertical wheel, half-encased in shining chrome and covered in symmetrically-placed long, slightly curved protrusions about the size of a thumb, that looked like of like...  
  
Oh.  _Oh_. Boone let his head fall back.  _Breathe in two counts. Breathe out four counts. Breathe in one count._  
  
Eyes diligently focused on the ceiling, he heard a new terrifying sound as the wheel began rotating in its casing, a slightly higher-pitched buzz accompanied by a sort of slick squelching. And then he felt it. Wet with warmed lube, the series of silicone artificial tongue tips brushing in a continuous sequence against his hole. And holy christ did it feel good. And -- more importantly -- new.  
  
His eyes slipped closed again and squirmed a little, landing in a spot that meant each velvety tip was hitting him  _dead-on_ , each one making the heat in his belly coil a little tighter. He hitched his legs up further, spreading himself open further for this sensation. Just a few minutes and he was languidly stroking himself off, harder than he'd been in his months of onanism. Experimentally, the word coming out as a hitched breath, he said, " _Faster_."  
  
Fisto obeyed, the wheel picking up speed and the pressure gone from light flicks to firm lapping, the heat from the friction and wetness from the lube making it all feel fantastically organic.  
  
And he wasn't thinking about anyone. Not a goddamn soul.  
  
He picked up his own pace, spitting into his palm before working his cock faster, wriggling against the wheel before accidentally knocking one of his boots against Fisto's dome.  
  
"Shit," he said, breathing ragged, "sorry." Apologizing to the robot prostitute.  
  
"You may rest your feet on my chassis," Fisto offered.  
  
Boone obliged, setting his boots on Fisto's solid metal shoulders, closer to the wheel, feeling the heat coming off it's casing lightly gusting against his sensitive skin, the tips now gently pushing into the ring of muscle with each quick passing. Boone writhed, spine locking and fist pumping harder, eyes clenched shut. " _Faster_ ," he begged.  
  
It was finally too much and just enough, the third setting, and soon Boone was rocking up into his hand, coming in spasms. Fisto kept going, making his cock twitch painfully and he scooted back. "I've, uh, finished," he said. "So... y'know, power down or whatever."

" _Transaction complete. Thank you for your business._ "   
  
Boone lay there, catching his breath, a sticky mess drying uncomfortably in his hand and the sounds of clunky metallic waddling filling the room. He slowly lowered his legs, wincing with a soft grunt at how sore they were, and stretched them, joints popping, before standing up and wiping his hand on the comforter beneath him.   
  
He walked back to the 38 on shaking legs, thighs burning from being held up for so long and knees still threatening to give way every few steps. He was never one for an active imagination so he felt deeply uncomfortable with the way his mind was dealing with the sudden persistent company of Securitrons, with the scenarios and questions it was producing. He blindly made his way to the kitchen and cracked open a beer, practically falling into a seat at the table.   
  
"Well,  _someone_  looks like they've had an eventful night."   
  
Boone looked up, saw the doc sitting at the table with a Nuka-Cola and a copy of Programmer's Digest, giving him a quick sweep over the rims of his glasses.   
  
Boone shrugged. "Can't say I know what you mean."   
  
"I mean you look like you got rode hard," Arcade said, fiddling with the corner of his page. "Please don't tell me that's why the courier left the Wrangler looking so satisfied, because I don't need the nightmares--"   
  
"Not that it's any of your business," Boone said archly, "but that's one thing that's never gonna happen."   
  
"Ah. Good." Arcade nodded, looking back down at his magazine. "That's one mess for which I wouldn't want to stick around for the resulting clean-up."   
  
Boone actually gave an amused snort. Shit, maybe Cass had been right all along, maybe he  _did_  need to get laid.   
  
"Well," Arcade said around a half-yawn, leaning back in his seat and clasping his hands behind his head, "I can provide you with the alibi you'll need if you ever find out that she was prancing around wearing your beret. Did I say that? Oh, bother. Guess I'm responsible for the inevitable aftermath. Don't know how I'll live with myself."   
  
"Relax," Boone said, one corner of his mouth quirking up, "there's not gonna be any aftermath."   
  
Arcade blinked eloquently. "You sure? Not even a little aftermath?"   
  
"Nah. She, uh, did me a solid."   
  
"A favor worth you relinquishing your precious beret for?" Arcade asked with an incredulously quirked eyebrow.   
  
Boone shifted, taking a swig of his beer. "Yeah," he said, looking at the table. "Yeah, it was." Although he was definitely going ot have to think of a new payment for next time.   



End file.
